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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28708125">together or not at all</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/downthedarkpath/pseuds/downthedarkpath'>downthedarkpath</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Afterlife, Aging, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Cute, Death, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Relationship Study</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:41:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28708125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/downthedarkpath/pseuds/downthedarkpath</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Time passes so easily. George works, he paints and savours and saves. He sees how Dream watches him, how desperately he observes. George wonders if there are things he misses. If he reminds Dream of the life he missed out on.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>It comes to a head one morning, where the sun has just barely risen. It blends pink and orange and an icy yellow across the horizon, like fingertips reaching out across the sky.<i></i></i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>138</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>together or not at all</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kivy/gifts">kivy</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107596">Blue Skies Smilin' At Me</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kivy/pseuds/kivy">kivy</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Gam8ogWBLk">together or not at all</a> from doctor who. murray gold is a goddamn genius.</p><p>for kivy, who wrote such a beautiful masterpiece, and then let me conclude it. i am very honoured. please let me put my Minecraft bed next to yours &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s you,” Is the first thing George says.</p><p>Dream turns around from the window, because it is him. It has to be. Brown hair, freckles, that dumb fucking coat. Like he’s straight out of an Austen novel.</p><p>“Yes,” Dream says. George has never wished more that he could touch him. That he could reach out and touch and feel. Truly feel, not the vague iciness that comes whenever his flesh passes over to the otherside, or the staticcy heat whenever Dream comes to him. “And it’s you.”</p><p>George feels like he might cry. His voice is tight. He inhales. “Who else?”</p><p>“I thought I never see you again,” Dream says. He’s still so far away. George takes one step towards him, careful, like the very floor might cave in beneath him.</p><p>“I thought I’d never see <em> you,” </em>he says. Dream holds his hand out. When George is close enough, when he’s close enough to try and hold it, when he’s close enough to try and fail. Then, the tears fall. “How are you even here?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Dream says. “I just… I realised my only wish was for you. All I wanted… was you.”</p><p>“Your wish?”</p><p>Dream nods. His movement is barely perceptible, here, in the dark. “My painting never mattered. I was here because of it, but then I met you. All of a sudden… you were more important. You were what kept me here.”</p><p>George swallows. “Don’t say that. Don’t say things you don’t mean.”</p><p>“I do mean it,” Dream says. “Georgie.”</p><p>“Don’t get my hopes up,” George says. He looks at Dream, at the translucence hovering around his fingertips. The only part of him that seems whole, truly and properly whole, is his chest. He wants. He wants so badly.</p><p>Dream is silent. His hand twitches. George imagines he could feel it. He can’t.</p><p>“I’ll wake up tomorrow,” George says. He sniffs. “I’ll wake up tomorrow, and this will be a dream. All this is… it’s exhaustion. It’s grief. I’m imagining you. Maybe I imagined you all along.”</p><p>“You didn’t.”</p><p>“What if I did?”</p><p>Dream shakes his head, “you didn’t.” There are tears in his eyes. Real tears.</p><p>“Are you sure you’re real?” George asks. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until he sobs. “Are you sure? How are you sure? You don’t even have a heartbeat. You don’t even have a <em> heart </em>.”</p><p>“I’m real, George,” Dream says, desperately. “I’m as real as I can be.”</p><p>“You’re not even alive,” George says. He feels like he can’t breathe, like there’s a lead weight in his stomach, in his lungs, pressure in his brain. It’s driving him down, drowning him. Dream’s arm reaches out to pull him up but he can’t even take hold of it.</p><p>All he has is the memory of Dream’s lips on his forehead, a memory that might not even have happened. When George moves his hand from Dream’s, from where Dream’s should be, he tries not to look at him. Not to look at what might be him.</p><p>He lies on his bed like he’s lying in his grave. He closes his eyes and keeps them shut, for as long as he can. Until the sun passes over the horizon.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He feels sick when he wakes up and sees Dream sitting on the bed next to him.</p><p>“You’re still here.”</p><p>George’s voice is thick with unwashed tears and sleep. Dream just looks sad.</p><p>“I’m still here.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I wish I could tell you,” Dream says. He laughs, like something is funny. “I’ve had an eternity, George. I still don’t know the truth.”</p><p>“Then what do you know?” George asks. He sits up slowly, unsure if he really wants to know the answer. “Can you tell me that, truthfully?”</p><p>Dream is silent for a long time. So long that George fears he won’t ever answer. “I can tell you that I love you. And that I longed to return to you. That’s all I know.” He hears Dream breathe; he thinks he hears him breathe. “Is that enough?”</p><p>George inhales, big enough for the both of them. There are still tears in his eyes, but they stay there. “It’ll have to be, won’t it?”</p><p>“You’re stuck with me, now,” Dream says. He doesn’t look as lost anymore, George thinks. He looks… at peace. “I hope you don’t come to regret taking that commission.”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid,” George says. As if he could. As if he ever could.</p><p>“It’s a genuine concern,” Dream says, “I have an eternity. You have a life. Now you have to spend it with me.”</p><p>“I couldn’t regret anything less,” George says. It’s true. It really is.</p><p>Dream laughs at him. “You love too unconditionally for someone with their whole life ahead of them.” He sounds in awe. “It’s like you were born to die.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The first week takes some getting used to. </p><p>Dream doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself, spends most of his time flitting in and out of rooms like he’s never seen one before. George wonders just how far from the truth that actually is. George sleeps for most of it, finally letting the past few days catch up to him.</p><p>Dream seems content to explore at his own pace, merely watching George during the nights and sitting with him during the days. It’s more than George could have asked for. </p><p>There is one memorable night where Dream stands in front of George’s television for a long time. He stares at it. George watches him stare at it, with a soft sort of smile on his face. It’s a look he couldn’t ever have imagined giving anyone. Now, it just feels natural.</p><p>“What is this?” Dream asks.</p><p>“A TV,” George says, “it’s, um. A box. With electricity.”</p><p>Dream gives the plugs and wires a look. “Clearly.”</p><p>“It plays pictures. It picks up signals and plays them,” George says. He isn’t sure how to explain this. He isn’t sure how much Dream already knows. “Have you never seen one before?”</p><p>“My painting was only ever on display in private galleries,” Dream reminds him, “I never had much of a chance to get out and about. What pictures does it play?”</p><p>George reaches over Dream to pick up the remote. He feels stupid as he does it: really, there’s no reason to reach over him. He couldn’t come in contact with him even if he wanted. Still, there’s something that feels almost inappropriate about reaching… through… Dream.</p><p>“What’s that?” Dream asks. George doesn’t reply, just aims it at the screen and presses the power button.</p><p>When the screen flickers on, playing the news, Dream jumps. “That’s like magic!”</p><p>George laughs. “It’s not magic. It’s science. Engineering.”</p><p>“Science,” Dream repeats, like he doesn’t believe him. “I think I liked your studio better.”</p><p>George opens his mouth to say something. Nothing comes out, until he swallows. “Do you think you could? Go back to my studio?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“If I went to the studio, you’d come too,” George says, “right?”</p><p>“I would go anywhere you lead me,” Dream says. It’s painfully, awfully, beautifully romantic. “But, yes. I probably would come with you. I am tied to you, after all. I don’t know what the range is.”</p><p>“Perhaps we should find out.”</p><p>“And how do you propose we do that?” Dream says.</p><p>George shrugs. “I don’t know. Find a big field and see how far away I can walk?”</p><p>Dream laughs. When George looks at him, looks through him, he can almost see the picture on the TV. “I suppose that’s one way. Do you think it would work?”</p><p>“We won’t know until we try,” George murmurs. He tries not to think about the light passing through Dream’s abdomen. He tries so hard.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Things settle, eventually.</p><p>Dream gets used to the TV. Once, he even manages to turn it on. </p><p>George doesn’t return to his studio for a while. He’s almost afraid to leave Dream, afraid to blink or turn his back, like not looking at him will make him disappear again. The fear leaves a sour taste in his mouth, like mothballs and dust.</p><p>He wishes, several times, that he and Dream could be normal. That they could sleep in the same bed, that they could hug and hold hands. That he could be with Dream in public, and people would see him. See him properly, as more than an echo.</p><p>Dream never says it, but George sees him sit at the window and watch the people outside. He feels his heart break so many times over. </p><p>“Things must be different outside now,” he says, from the doorway of his bedroom. Their bedroom.</p><p>“Yes,” Dream says. “Different, and all the same.”</p><p>“...Do you want to leave?”</p><p>Dream moves his gaze from the window to the sill. “I don’t know. I haven’t. Ever. I don’t even know if I could.”</p><p>“What if you can?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Would you?”</p><p>Dream is quiet. He’s quiet a lot. Like he’s mourning. “Would you go with me?”</p><p>“Always,” George says, immediately. It’s barely even a question.</p><p>“Then… I would think about it. But not yet. Let me dream about it all, first.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Before long, a year passes.</p><p>George is older. His bones are wearier. He finds a grey hair one morning, and he feels almost glad for it.</p><p>Dream is the same as ever. </p><p>“You are beautiful,” he says, one morning. George has shaving cream on his ear, and half his stubble left. Dream stands in the doorway to the bathroom and smiles at him. “You’ve never looked more beautiful.”</p><p>“Don’t lie to me.”</p><p>“I’m not. If I had my paints… if I could still paint,” Dream says, “you would be a masterpiece.”</p><p>George shakes his head. He draws a stripe through the shaving cream. “How did they teach all you Victorian boys to be so suave?”</p><p>“It’s a natural talent,” Dream says. He says it with a straight face, up until George meets his eye in the mirror. Then, he grins. “And it’s true. I will always find you the most beautiful.”</p><p>“After everything you’ve seen?”</p><p>“The bar is high,” Dream agrees, “and yet, you defy expectations.”</p><p>“You are…”</p><p>“I am?”</p><p>“You are so much,” George says. He inhales and exhales slowly. “Just so much.”</p><p>“Too much?”</p><p>There is a long quiet. It’s enough.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>George’s heart is heavy. Time passes so quickly. He grows old, and Dream is left to watch him. Preserved in amber.</p><p>Tonight, they sit outside. There are few stars in London, but George stares into smog and light pollution like it’s beautiful in spite of everything. Really, it is.</p><p>“You seem sad,” Dream remarks. His hand lies open between them, like he’s waiting for George to take it.</p><p>“I’m not sad,” George says. He isn’t, not really. Beneath the molten silver of the moon and the orange-gold of the streetlamps, Dream is beautiful. Ethereal. He holds light in the palm of his hand, like he commands it. Perhaps he might.</p><p>“Aren’t you?”</p><p>He doesn’t reply. The words don’t fit in his mouth, vowels too big, rough on his teeth. Instead, he asks, “were you afraid?”</p><p>“Afraid of what?”</p><p>“Of dying.”</p><p>Dream doesn’t need to breathe. George wonders, sometimes, if he does it just for his benefit. When he exhales, George feels himself relax. “No. I don’t think so.”</p><p>“You weren’t?”</p><p>“I was so young,” Dream says, “Of course, there were things I was afraid of. But not death.”</p><p>“Then what were you afraid of?” George asks.</p><p>“Leaving Elizabeth,” Dream replies, “mostly. I made her a widow. I don’t have many regrets, George, about my life. But that is one of them.”</p><p>“It wasn’t your fault.”</p><p>“No,” Dream says, “of course it wasn’t. How could it have been? But she is still my widow.”</p><p>“I’m sure she’d forgive you,” George says. He hopes its the right thing to say.</p><p>Dream smiles at him, wistfully, like he’s seeing something else in George’s place. “I’m sure she would, too.”</p><p>George has nothing to reply to that. He lets them sit in silence, listening to the cars and the trains and the very faint chatter of people, alive, in their houses.</p><p>Dream asks, “are <em> you </em> afraid?”</p><p>“Of dying?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I used to be,” George says. “I think. I was afraid of not having done enough. Or having done too much. Of leaving unfinished business, I guess.”</p><p>“And now?”</p><p>“Now?” George repeats. “I think I could die tomorrow and not have any regrets.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Time passes so easily. George works, he paints and savours and saves. He sees how Dream watches him, how desperately he observes. George wonders if there are things he misses. If he reminds Dream of the life he missed out on.</p><p>It comes to a head one morning, where the sun has just barely risen. It blends pink and orange and an icy yellow across the horizon, like fingertips reaching out across the sky. Dream curls on George’s bed like he could hide from the world, and all George wants to do is hold him.</p><p>“I hope I’m enough,” Dream says, quiet like he’s shouting. “I hope this is good enough for you. I feel so often like everything I am is half of what you deserve. Half of what you ought to have. I would never forgive myself if you were wanting for anything.”</p><p>“Dream…”</p><p>“Quiet, please,” he asks, words silent but loud. So loud. His voice shakes. “I would hate myself if I were holding you back. If I am not enough, if I ever become… not enough for you, George. Please promise me this. Please promise me, you will let me go. If you need to, you let me go.”</p><p>“Don’t say that.”</p><p>“It’s true,” Dream spits, “you want my truth, don’t you? Tell me when I weigh you down. You deserve more than me, some half-man. I have been cursed with this eternity, and I am so grateful to have spent some of it with you. But I would never curse you with the same fate, so help me God.”</p><p>“It’s not a curse,” George says, drawing his brow into a frown and his lips between his teeth. “You’re not a curse. Don’t say that. Don’t even think that.”</p><p>“Don’t you see?!” Dream says. His voice rises barely above a whisper. “Don’t you see, George? You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat. You have a life. Please, don’t let me keep you from it. You have everything for you.”</p><p>“I had nothing before you.”</p><p>Dream sniffs. He doesn’t cry, not real tears, anyway. But it’s enough for George’s heart to break. “You had everything. You have everything. Please. I would never take that from you.”</p><p>“You aren’t taking anything from me,” George says. His own eyes well. “You never were. I love you. I <em> love </em> you.”</p><p>“Don’t promise me things you can’t keep,” Dream says. He seems so adamant about not believing a word of it. He holds himself up on steel rods, like they would never warp under heat.</p><p>George holds a flame beneath him. “I’ve never meant anything more.”</p><p>“You’re naive,” Dream accuses. “You’re young, and naive. Man was never supposed to love memories. And that’s all I am. A memory. A pitiful one, at that.”</p><p>“Dream, please,” George says. “You are everything… everything.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>There are dishes in the sink. He’ll get around to it eventually.</p><p>George catches Dream stare at them several times, like he doesn’t quite know what they’re supposed to do.</p><p>“Surely, you had washing up in your time,” he teases. </p><p>Dream looks at him with an almost smile. “Of course they did.”</p><p>George’s face falls ever so slightly. “Then what’s the problem?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Dream says. “That’s the problem. I… I want to wash the dishes.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And I can’t”</p><p>George frowns. “I don’t get it.”</p><p>“I want to wash the dishes,” Dream repeats. He insists. “And I can’t.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“I can’t wash them.”</p><p>“Then… I’ll wash them,” George says. He starts to get up, until Dream’s hand reaches out like it could stop him.</p><p>“No! Wait.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Just…” Dream exhales. “Just leave them. A bit longer. Please. I want to try.”</p><p>George sits back down. “...Okay.”</p><p>Dream nods. When he stands, he stands like a soldier. “Okay.”</p><p>He doesn’t see Dream for the rest of the night. When George goes to investigate the kitchen, it’s empty. One plate has moved, and it’s broken. He clears it up, washes everything with a heavy heart. Dream doesn’t come to bed.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Happy decade,” Dream says one morning.</p><p>It’s sooner than George realised, but when he wakes up properly, he finds he’s not surprised. He’s thirty nine. Dream is still frozen. Time passes without them, but for once he finds he doesn’t mind.</p><p>He smiles. “Happy decade.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He’s forty three when he finally works up the courage to ask, to ask properly. Dream still looks twenty five. George does not.</p><p>“Will I look like an old man when I die?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Dream asks.</p><p>“Don’t act like you don’t know,” George says, “like you haven’t noticed. Look at me. I’m old, Dream. I’m getting old.”</p><p>“You look perfectly fine. As beautiful as ever.”</p><p>“That’s not what I’m asking,” George says. </p><p>Dream sighs. “I know. And I don’t know the answer. You may be old. You may become twenty eight again, like you were when we first met. I really couldn’t tell you.”</p><p>“Will you still love me if I’m old?”</p><p>“What sort of a question is that?”</p><p>“One I want answered.”</p><p>Dream looks at him. “I would love you no matter what you looked, George,” he says. “And I will always think you’re perfect. You don’t need to worry about that.”</p><p>“I’m still worried,” George says. He has wrinkles, now. And he wears glasses all the time, not just for reading. He has to take breaks at work because his fingers cramp up more often than they should, and he hates it. </p><p>“Of course you are,” Dream says. “But you don’t need to be.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sapnap retires first. George is there for his retirement party (which is an excuse to drink beer and eat cake, really), and so is Dream. Not that Sapnap knows that.</p><p>He’s fifty seven. Sapnap has aged well. </p><p>“I can’t believe you’ve been alone all these years,” Sapnap says. “George. How’d you do it? Didn’t it get lonely?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” George says. He looks at Dream. “Not really. I have everything I need.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The sun sets on his seventieth birthday.</p><p>Dream is still young. Time is still fast.</p><p>George is old, and tired.</p><p>“You’re still beautiful,” Dream tells him. Promises him. “I will always think that.”</p><p>George doesn’t believe him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They don’t take the dishes out of the cupboards anymore.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The sun rises on his seventieth eighth. Dream sleeps, properly sleeps for once. On the bed next to him, eyes shut, chest rising. George watches him.</p><p>He feels, at once, alive. He feels free. He feels beautiful.</p><p>He reaches out, holds his hand open on the bed between them. When Dream takes it, when he really, properly takes it, George feels his heart beat once.</p><p>One final time. There is a brief moment, where George feels himself pass through, where his lungs seem to pause before they realise he doesn’t need them any more.</p><p>Dream holds his hand. Really, properly holds it. When he smiles, it’s like he’s seeing George for the first time, again. “You’re here,” he says. “Finally, you’re here.”</p><p>George is relieved to find that he’s younger, now. His skin is smoother, and his hair has more brown than grey  - he’s no longer twenty-eight, but there is distinctly less than fifty years of wear and tear on his bones. </p><p>“I’m here,” George agrees. Death was painless. He doesn’t remember much: curling up to sleep, seeing Dream assume parade rest next to him, waking up with Dream next to him. Waking up in the next world. “I really am.”</p><p>Now, when Dream breathes, George knows he does it because he wants to. “I’ve missed you,” he says, “so much. I’ve missed you.”</p><p>They cry. The tears are as real as they are. As real as they want to be. As real as they ever were.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank u for reading. hope u enjoyed :3 would love some comments, if u fancy leaving one.</p><p>once again. thank u kivy. everyone say thank you kivy.</p><p>find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/ERR0RGEO">twitter</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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